


The Question

by wendymarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dialogue-Only, cw for suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-17 21:51:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10602975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: “. . . so premeditated murder. Why, exactly, would I be murdering you? Besides the obvious?”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Вопрос (The Question)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10632591) by [Merla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merla/pseuds/Merla)



“John?”

“Hmmm?”

“How would you kill me?”

“I . . . what? Is this for a case?”

“No, just in general. How would you kill me? Include a plan to not get caught. It’s trivial to concoct a scenario without.”

“So premeditated murder. Why, exactly, would I be murdering you? Besides the obvious?”

“Consider it a thought exercise.”

“Sherlock, we may have only known each other for a month, but you know this isn’t a normal thing to ask your flatmate, yeah?”

“Normal is dull.”

“I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“I’ll give you time to think about it, then.”

***

“Have you decided?”

“I thought we’d already picked Thai.”

“No, not that. About how you’d kill me.”

“Sherlock . . .”

“You’ve had an entire week to cogitate. Surely you’ve imagined it at least once or twice.”

“Fine, you berk - I think I’d make you wash a dish. I’m assuming you’d keel over immediately, given how averse you are to actually cleaning up after yourself.”

“Joooooohn…”

“Shove it. It’s your turn to order.”

***

“Reached any conclusions yet? About how you’d kill me?”

“Damn it, Sherlock, we’re getting shot at! Can’t this wait?”

“We’re not being shot at _currently_. It’s just a question.”

“I’d pull out every third sock from your precious sock index and wait for you to have an aneurism. Now please shut the hell up so we survive until Lestrade can get here.”

***

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah, sure. Give me a mo- _oi!_ Donovan! Make sure that gets bagged before he licks it or something, would you? Sorry. Okay, shoot - what is it?”

“It’s just . . . Sherlock asked me something the other day. He wanted me to describe how I’d kill him and cover up the murder.”

“Oh! Already? Damn, he must really want to keep you around. I knew him almost two years before he brought it up with me.”

“Does he ask everyone? Christ.”

“Only people he knows more than in passing. I said I’d fake a cocaine overdose and he wouldn’t talk to me for a week. Then out of the blue he comes back and says my answer wasn’t interesting enough and he’d rather go with Donovan’s.”

“What did Donovan say?”

“No idea, mate. I’m guessing Sherlock figures she’d botch it and get caught, though.”

***

“Hmmm? Oh, I don’t remember, dear. I’ve known him for ages. I think I told him if I ever wanted him to die, I’d just stop bringing him those chocolate biscuits he likes so much. It’s a good thing he has you up there now to get him to eat!”

***

“Dr. Watson.”

“You know, I was just thinking earlier, what could make my day even better? A kidnapping! And boom, there your car was. I appreciate it, truly.”

“You haven’t answered my brother’s question yet.”

“He sent you to intimidate me into giving up the truth?”

“Sherlock doesn’t know we’re having this chat.”

“Oh, imagine that. Color me shocked. But Mycroft, there’s no way I’m telling Sherlock my bloody middle name if he continues to-”

“You misunderstand me, Dr. Watson. I meant the other question. The one in which he asks you to kill him. Hypothetically, of course.”

“Yeah, I haven’t answered. Because seriously, _what the hell?_ I’m sure you’re used to ignoring things like mental health issues in the Holmes family, but passive suicidal ideation is still a big red flag for depression. I’m not going to encourage it. If and when Sherlock is ready, I’ll help him find a professional who can-”

“He’s not depressed.”

“Which of us is the doctor?”

“A psychiatrist? Neither, although my brother has certainly gone through several. No, Dr. Watson, that particular question is Sherlock’s way of . . . assuring himself he’s important to the people he cares about.”

“If I want to kill him I must secretly love him? _Not gay,_ remember. I can’t believe it’s been almost six months and I _still_ have to keep telling people that.”

“I don’t mean strictly in a romantic sense; more that you’ve taken note of his existence.”

“He wants me to plan his murder because he wants to know I care?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“He’s asked you too, hasn’t he. Christ. Of course he has. What did you say? I’m guessing it involves MI5 and state secrets, but you could probably use his murder to start a war.”

“. . . Goodnight, Dr. Watson. Have a pleasant drive home.”

***

“You bastard. You utter bastard.”

“John . . .”

“No, you fucking shut up and listen to me. Remember that question you kept asking, back when we were first living together? The one I refused to answer? I know what I’d do now. I’d _jump off a fucking building_ and _make you watch,_ you motherfucking cocktwat. I’d stay dead for _two damn years,_ watching you grieve over me. Laughing my head off in private, I’m sure. And then - if you didn’t eat your own fucking gun first - I’d pop back into your life and _insult your bloody moustache.”_

“John.”

“Just . . . leave, Sherlock. Go back to being dead. I was getting used to it.”

***

“Sherlock.”

“Mmmm.”

“I’m sorry, okay? I’m so fucking sorry for what I said before. When you came back right while I was trying to propose to Mary. I was angry. I was in shock. And that still doesn’t excuse me punching you.”

“Nnnng.”

“Damn it, Sherlock, hang on! We’re less than two minutes out from Bart’s - Mycroft has a special team in the A&E waiting for you. Lord knows he’s probably got them on standby just in case. But _don’t you dare die on me,_ Sherlock Holmes. I need you here with me. Here’s an answer to your damn question - if you die on me, I will fucking kill you again myself. Raise you from the dead so I can kill you for giving up. You hold on, you bloody hear me?”

***

“It’s - you’ve moved your things in.”

“Yep. And Rosie’s, too. I know I didn’t actually ask, but Mrs. Hudson said . . .”

“Of course I want you back here. You and Rosie both.”

“Not just while you’re still laid up and healing, so you can order me around?”

“John . . .”

“Me too, you berk.”

“So you’ll stay? You’re welcome to move around the - we can probably partition off a space somewhere, if you want Rosie to have her own room-”

“Sherlock? Shut up. I’m only going to say this once, and this is my final answer to that ridiculous question you keep asking people: I’ve decided how I’m going to kill you. I want to keep you here, you and me and Rosie in 221B, for as long as possible. I’ll keep reminding you to eat and you’ll keep nearly getting us shot and Rosie will keep both of us on our toes. Then, a few decades from now when we’re both too old to be running after criminals quite so often, I’ll take you to a little cottage in Sussex like you daydreamed about that one time at the park. I’ll buy the cottage and you’ll keep bees and I’ll write memoirs and maybe Rosie will have kids she’ll bring by sometimes to visit. You’ll solve the mystery of why the nosy neighbor’s flowers keep wilting and I’ll apologize to everyone for your deductions about their sex lives even though I know you’re probably right. You’ll still stay up half the night and I’ll stop insisting I’m not gay, even though I’m still not, because who the fuck cares why I’ve decided to stick with you for life.”

_“. . . John.”_

“And then, when we’re both old and decrepit and bored with retirement, I’ll suggest we go on one last adventure back to London. I’ll bring my cane and you’ll bring your walker and we’ll go crawling through some dirty alley to chase down the worst scum London can produce. And we’ll go down fighting. Whoever’s on duty at the Yard will have heard stories of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, maybe, but probably won’t have met us in person. And there we’ll be, hopefully having taken down a few motherfuckers besides, and whoever-it-is won’t have the faintest clue where to begin. That, Sherlock, is how I’ll kill you.”

“You’re proposing . . . a murder-suicide?”

“If you want to call it that, yes.”

“For life.”

“I love you, you berk. I assumed you’d deduced that by now.”

“I . . . John, I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Obviously.”


End file.
